Dawn
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: What if, during her voyage on the Black Pearl to find Davy Jones' heart, Elizabeth has prophetic nightmares about what would one day happen to Norrington? Would it change anything between them? Could it change everything?


_What if, during her voyage on the Black Pearl to find Davy Jones' heart, Elizabeth has prophetic nightmares about what would one day happen to Norrington? Would it change anything between them? Could it change everything?_

_This takes place during "Dead Man's Chest," when Elizabeth, Norrington and Jack are searching for the chest that holds Davy Jones' heart._

_Please, please, PLEASE review!_

_VVV_

DAWN

Elizabeth Swann thrashed beneath her covers, then kicked them off. The _Black Pearl_ swayed and rocked beneath her, like a cradle, but she could not be soothed. She stared at the dark ceiling above her, listening to the deep creaks and groans of the ship, and the flap of the sails above decks.

She sighed, deciding she was just hot—but in fact, she felt slightly feverish. She sat up, swiping at her forehead. Perspiration came away on the back of her hand. She swallowed. She told herself that she was merely exhausted from the journey and too much sun. But as she lay back on her twisted blankets in her little cabin, she bit her cheek and admitted she was probably ill. But she could not be ill. Not when Will's life was at stake, and her role in their plans was so crucial. No, she would not allow herself to be ill. She had to rest, and be ready in the morning.

She also had to admit that the presence of the former Commodore Norrington onboard the same ship as herself was unnerving her. She had not seen him for months—not after he had headed off after Jack Sparrow and not returned. She had thought he was dead. And then, when she found him in that wretched pub on Tortuga, drunken and shattered, and had literally dragged him out of the mud, she thought she had never seen such a fallen and ruined man.

But he carried himself differently aboard a ship—his footsteps were steadier, and when he gazed into the wind, she had caught, for a few brief moments, a glimpse of his old grandeur. But she did not wish to meet his eyes. The pain there was so raw it was angry, and nothing he said was kind. She avoided him, and she would continue doing so for the rest of the voyage.

Growling in the back of her throat, Elizabeth discarded her covers completely and spread out on the mattress, trying to stay cool, and closed her eyes. It took many minutes of her regulating her breathing and forcing herself to stay still, but she finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

VVV

_At first, her vision was hazy. Gradually, however, it cleared, and she realized she was gazing in upon the place that had once been her father's office—but now that stunted brute Cutler Beckett sat behind his stolen desk. _

_ Someone walked in—a purposeful but weary step. A tall, handsome, dark-haired, bearded man wearing a tattered Commodore's coat. _

_It was Norrington._

_He carried a small leather satchel—he approached Beckett's desk and plopped the satchel _

_down._

_Elizabeth could not hear what they were saying, but the way Beckett's eyes latched hungrily upon the package, and the tired satisfaction in Norrington's weathered face, said it all. _

_Norrington had gotten Davy Jones' heart—_

_And he had given it to Beckett._

_ Elizabeth struggled to cry out, to dart forward and take the purse away, but she could not move. In fact, it was as if she was not in the room—she was _part _of the room, and could only watch. _

_ But no sooner had she begun to struggle than this scene faded, replaced by quite a different one. There stood Norrington again, in the captain's cabin of some ship. He wore the clothes of an Admira—doubtlessly because of the prize he had delivered to Beckett. He was clean-shaven, and as fine looking as she had ever seen him. But the sadness in his eyes was overwhelming—as long as Beckett and the other officers in the room were not looking at him. Elizabeth could see it as clearly as if it was written on his chest: he had regained his splendor, but he was just as broken beneath it as he had been while lying in the mud._

_ He hefted a gleaming sword—a sword Beckett had just handed him. Elizabeth recognized it immediately. It was the weapon Will had forged for him—it seemed like a long time ago. Memory passed across Norrington's quiet eyes as he gazed at the blade. Elizabeth was finding it hard to breathe. Foreboding pressed against her chest. The vision faded._

_ Another one rose out of the darkness before her eyes. This one looked like the deck of a ghastly ship. Ghoulish lamps were all that lit crooked, barnacle-covered masts and posts and stairs. Her breath caught. She—herself—dressed in elegant but piratical Oriental garb—stood atop the stairs, restrained by a pirate with a sword. And walking stiffly toward her, down on the deck, was Norrington, his eyes fixed on her. Again, the words spoken were muffled, but Elizabeth watched herself break free of her captor and hurry down the stairs toward Norrington. But his reaction caught her off guard. He stepped up to her and wrapped her up in his arms, pulling her hard against him. The next moment, he withdrew and smiled at her with such boyish affection and relief, Elizabeth's heart panged hard inside her. But the version of her that stood before him seemed unmoved—in fact, she uttered something cruel that stabbed into him more surely than any knife. And then she backed away from him, leaving him standing there, his hands empty..._

_ And his eyes filled with such vibrant pain she did not know how her other self could bear to look at it._

_ "James…" Elizabeth tried to say, but nothing came out. Her voice would not work. And he lowered his shoulders, turned and walked away, and though she kicked her feet and tried to follow, he drifted away like a reflection on a pond, and the heaviness on her chest grew._

_ When the next scene surfaced, she could barely draw breath—dread pulsed through her veins along with her blood. Something evil lingered in the air, something sodden and rotten and poisonous. She shivered hard, nausea settling in her gut. Another image of Norrington, descending the stairs to the brig with all haste clarified in front of her. He unlocked the iron gate and leaned inside. Elizabeth saw herself, amongst a crew of strangers, staring back at him from within the cell with hatred in her gaze. Hatred that Elizabeth, as she watched, could not understand. And suddenly, she _could _hear what they were saying._

_ "Come with me," Norrington urged. He saw their hesitation and frowned. "Quickly."_

_ Elizabeth watched herself nod. The other crewmembers filed out. Her hardened self came up and looked Norrington in the eye._

_ "What are you doing?" she heard herself ask. His jaw tightened as he answered._

_ "Choosing a side."_

_ The next moment, as Elizabeth's heart lurched with the realization that he was coming to her rescue, the vision flickered, and she stood with him on the aft balcony of the ship, watching the escaped crewmembers sliding down a rope onto a ship that was being towed through the night sea. Elizabeth observed herself stride up to Norrington even as he began speaking._

_ "Do not go to Shipwreck Cove. Beckett knows there's a meeting of the Brethren. I fear there may be a traitor among them." He cast an urgent look at those escaping. Elizabeth's other self glared at him. _

_ "It's too late to earn my forgiveness."_

_ Norrington leaned toward her, eyes bright with certainty._

_ "I had nothing to do with your father's death."_

_ Elizabeth's whole chest clenched, but she was instantly captured by the way Norrington ducked his head, and his eyelashes fluttered._

_ "But that does not absolve me of my other sins."_

_ Elizabeth was choking, as if venom swelled out of her heart and into her limbs. Something was wrong, something was coming, someone was watching with a deadly aim…_

_ "Come with us."_

_ She was startled to hear her own voice. And then she saw something in her own eyes that she never believed could have been there when she looked at James Norrington. But her next words confirmed it._

_ "James, come with me."_

_ His eyes were suddenly locked on hers—and she saw in _his _eyes that same look, reflected back. But even as she wanted to lose herself in that gaze, a thud issued from above._

_ Someone had seen them._

_ "Go!" she tried to scream. "Go, get off the ship!" But of course, she could make no sound._

_ Norrington whipped around, pushing the Elizabeth she could see behind him, and drawing his sword. _

_ "Go," he urged. "I will follow."_

_ She watched her own eyes flash to him._

_ "You're lying," she accused. Her voice captivated him again, and he turned to her. And for once, there was nothing guarded in his features—nothing disdainful or calculating or sarcastic. He looked at her openly, and she could see straight down into his soul even though he was looking at a dream of her, and not into her very eyes. And what she saw made her heart thunder until it threatened to break. _

_ "Our destinies have been entwined, Elizabeth," he murmured ardently. "But never joined." _

_ And then he leaned in and kissed her. _

_ She could not feel it, nor taste it, nor sense his warmth. It was as if she was looking at a painting. But her chest was wrenching in two. _

_ She watched herself break the kiss, startled. _

_ "Go," he said brokenly. Giving him one last look, Elizabeth saw herself climb over the railing and grab the thick rope. The next moment, a freakish crewmember approached with drawn sword._

_ "James!" she tried, from the disembodied place where she stood. "James, go!" She could not speak. But she refused to give up. She flailed and choked, the sense of despair and dread drowning her. She could not hear what Norrington said to the crewman, but she saw it was to no avail. She watched Norrington glance behind him to see that Elizabeth was not far enough away to be safe. _

_ And so, with a slight wince—as if he had been pricked by a thorn—he shot the rope in two. Elizabeth fell to the ocean below._

_ "No!" she tried to wail. "James!" _

_ But she could not move. She could not warn him. She could only stand, invisible, as the crewman's blade rammed right through his chest. _

_ He staggered back, then toppled to the deck, his body stiff, his face tight. She heard herself screaming from the surface of the sea. But that sound was nothing compared to what was happening inside her. _

_ And then a demon, with a writhing, tentacle face, like an octopus, clattered and stalked toward him, and bent down to him._

_ "James Norrington," the demon hissed. "Do you fear death?"_

_ With his last ounce of life, James Norrington lifted the sword Will had forged for him, and stabbed it straight into that demon's shoulder. And then his spine straightened, his brow twisted…_

_ And the light went out behind his eyes. His body went limp. The demon chuckled to himself, pulled the sword loose, and faded into darkness._

Elizabeth flung herself out of bed. She had slammed her palms against the wall before she was fully awake. She sucked in a shattering breath only to shiver violently as her body demanded another one.

_Where am I, where am I?_ The thought flew through her head so fast it barely registered—until she swallowed hard, took another breath, and smelled salt in the air. She blinked, and her head shot up.

She was on board the _Black Pearl_. She was on her way to find Davy Jones' heart with Jack Sparrow…

And James Norrington.

Elizabeth staggered toward the door, ignoring her shoes, never minding that she only wore trousers and a loose shirt. She pulled the door open and clambered up the stairs until the sea air hit her face and ruffled her hair. The pink light of dawn tinged the sky, and gulls called in the distance.

She heard the faint sound of humming coming from the fore section of the deck. For a moment, she braced herself against the railing, searching for the source.

And then she saw him. He stood at the very bow of the ship, a bucket of water on the wide railing. He had stripped off his coat and cravat, and just wore his loose white shirt. He had pulled his dark hair back into a neater ponytail than before, and was now washing his face in the water from the bucket. It ran in trails down his neck as his rough hands splashed it across his nose, eyes, brow and cheeks. She just watched him for the longest time, barely breathing, fascinated by his every movement.

He was alive.

He was _alive_.

"James," she tried. Her voice came out broken and hoarse, but it made a sound. "James," she said again, her voice weaker, but her legs stronger. "James, James…" She kept repeating it as she started forward. Her bare feet were silent on the teak wood. He did not see her coming until she was almost upon him.

He lifted his face. His eyes flashed in bemusement for just an instant…

And then she jumped up and threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his wet collar and squeezing him as tightly as she could.

"James…James…" she gasped, her voice muffled as she squeezed her eyes shut. She was shivering hard, but she would not let him go.

"Elizabeth?" he murmured—and his voice was so gentle, so like his voice in the dream when he was bidding her farewell, that tears streamed down her face, and she choked on a sob. He repeated her name in shock, and wrapped his warm arms around her and ducked his head so his cheek pressed against hers.

She took deep breaths of him, smelling salt and leather and cotton, her fingers tightening on his shirt.

"It's all right," he whispered. "I am here. Don't cry."

"James…" she started again. "I had a dream..."

"Tell me," he urged, all the bitterness of the past few days gone from his tone. She took a breath and tried to form all of that venomous dread into words.

"I saw you give the heart to Cutler Beckett," she confessed. "I saw you become an Admiral because of it but you hated the men who commanded you. I saw the pain in your face when you stood and looked at the sword Will made for you. I saw you rescue me from the brig of the _Flying Dutchman _and lead me aft so I could escape, and then you—" Elizabeth pulled back, for it was hard to breathe, and she wanted to see his face. But his gaze stopped her short.

There it was.

There it was—that very look she had seen in her dream. True, he was not dressed as an Admiral, but when his bright, penetrating hazel eyes were brought to bear on hers, as they were now, she could read them like writing.

He loved her. Without suspicion, without hesitation, without condition. The purest form there was. And he had never had to say it.

Her gaze traced his strong features as her words halted in her mouth. His brow furrowed as he earnestly searched her expression.

"And then I what?" he pressed softly. She reached up with both hands, running her trembling fingertips over his forehead and across his cheeks as her lip trembled. Her heart quivered. She could not stand to tell him. She did not dare finish confessing the dream. His eyes grew brighter, and he swallowed as her thumbs traced his cheekbones, but he persisted.

"Elizabeth, if it is tormenting you this much, you must tell me what—"

She could not stop herself. The image of the haunting painting burned her mind—the touchless, tasteless painting. She lifted her face and pressed her lips to his, lacing her fingers through his hair.

His lips were soft against hers—soft and welcoming, yet sending a thrill through her bones. He responded with a sudden desperation that sent his heart thudding against hers—she could feel it. Their mouths tangled and pressed deep, and she tasted her own tears.

"Promise me," she said between breathless kisses.

"Anything," he gasped, before leaning in for the deepest one yet. She tasted him, caressed him with all she had, then pulled back just a little to look into his eyes. She took hold of his long hair, tugging on it for emphasis. She blinked through her tears.

"If I ever ask you to come with me, you will." Her urgency mounted. "And if you promise you will follow me, you won't lie."

"You have to know by now," he breathed shakily, his arms tight around her, his eyes brilliant. "I would do anything you ask."

She managed a weak smile, her brow tightening.

"Good," she said, barely able to speak. "Because I cannot bear to lose you."

Amazement flashed across his face as Elizabeth stroked his brow and hair, marveling at the feel of it, and then pressed in to kiss him again, and again, and again.

James Norrington was alive, and in her arms, and she could touch him, and taste his kiss.

The dream had not come true. And it _would _not come true. Not while there was still a breath in her body and a sword in her hand.

FIN


End file.
